


Caesura: Passacaglia

by Crash (theyllek)



Series: Caesura [3]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 11:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15907338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyllek/pseuds/Crash
Summary: Part 3 of Caesura. Daniel comes to terms with the last mission, his place in the world, and himself, with a little help from Chris and Jack.





	Caesura: Passacaglia

**Author's Note:**

> Caesura - Music. A pause or breathing at a point of rhythmic division in a melody.

* * *

 

“Only the dead have seen the end of war.” ~ Plato  
  
When you know a thing, to hold that you know it; and when you do not know a thing, to allow that you do not know it - this is knowledge. ~Confucius

 

* * *

 

Stuck.  
  
Completely paralyzed by some invisible force. He tried to move but nothing was working. His body was offline. People were yelling at him. His ears were working, maybe his nose was too but it was probably numb with cold so not a good sense to go by. Even if it was working how would smell be of any help to tell him if anyone was there? The cold air would fry any sense before he could tell.  
  
His thoughts, not in the left lane to begin with, came to a fast halt.  He wasn't in the truck. He was cold but not frozen. Interesting. And people weren't yelling. Talking, yes. Very nice voices. Coaxing, but not yelling. With a little bit of work his eyes finally cooperating, opening to reveal a watery discombobulated world.  
  
"Captain Jeppeson," a young woman insinuated herself in his line of sight. "are you in any pain?"  
  
"No. It's nice here." Pain? Nope. He wasn't feeling much of anything right now, it was good, it was nice. "Heaven's nice."  
  
The young woman smiled, "I hate to disappoint you Captain but this isn't heaven."  
  
"S'not?"  
  
"No sir." She smiled again. "And by the way it looks you won't be going there for a very long time."  
  
"Looks like heaven."  
  
"That's that nice morphine drip you got there."  
  
"Can I keep it?"  
  
"Only for a little while sir," She laughed.  
  
Chris was pretty sure she was lying about this not being heaven. Everything was white. She was dressed in white. Everything was glowing a little bit around the edges. Maybe if he squinted just right, God himself, would come walking around the corner, welcome him to the neighborhood.  
  
"Where's Carol?" He asked, looking around as much as he could, seemed like everything took longer to work in heaven, but hey you had all the time you needed in heaven so it didn't really matter.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Carol Zimmerman. My friend. She was good person. She'd be here too."  
  
"I'm sorry but she's not here."  
  
That figured. God probably welcomed her to the neighborhood first. Carol went first after all. She'd probably remind him of that forever. How she got to see what He looked like before Chris. She'd be along later.  
  
"She'll be along later though?" He was starting to feel...wonky.  
  
"Um...no sir," He noticed the lady looked uncomfortable. "Captain Zimmerman didn't make it sir."  
  
"What?" Chris was confused. How could she not make it? She was good person; way better then himself.  
  
"Sir, you're in the hospital. You were in a bad accident." Things were really wonky now; color shifting into things that just a minute go had been white; memories flooding back and his thoughts speeding back up to normal speed, taking his heart rate with it. Carol had died.  
  
"Captain? Captain Jeppeson." He could hear her trying to get his attention, but everything was flinging out of control, and he hurt. Bad. He hurt bad.  
  
"Hurts." He tried to move, to get away.  
  
"Chris, I've given you extra morphine. You're gonna feel sleepy." Her voice was calm. It didn't fit right.  He was panicking and she was calm.  
  
"Go ahead and do it, don't fight it." She was still talking, soothing words that didn't always make sense. He could feel it. Sinking its teeth into his veins and pulling him into its warm narcotic veil; making everything nice again.  
  
His eyes fell shut, his body going limp in relaxation. Morpheus was cranky when kept waiting.

 

* * *

 

He woke with a start. Arms flailing, one cracking harshly against the headboard, his other tangled up in his headphone wire. Kicking at the covers that wrapped around his legs, Chris fought his way upward. His Discman was sent sliding over the edge of the bed. The headphone wire went taught around his arm and neck briefly before the weight of the player severed the sound connection.  
  
Hands went to either side of his head, and he shoved the headphones off his ears, forgetting the cord was wrapped around his neck.  
  
"Damn it!" He cursed as he finally managed to free himself from the cord. It really was a bad habit. Sleeping with headphones on. He'd never kept track of the number of times he woke up to have the cord tangled around his neck or arm. But he'd needed it. It was hard to explain. Sometimes, he just needed to feel as if he were in the music.  
  
Chris pulled his knees up to his chest, crossing his arms atop them to rest his head on. Between his heaving gasps for air and his erratic heart beat, he swore his ribs were about ready to split open.  He stayed in that position for a while, waiting for his body to return to normal.    
  
The rush of adrenaline faded, leaving him in a sweat-soaked and shivering huddle on the bed. He hadn't had that dream in a long time. Waking up in the hospital after the truck wreck. Remembering that Carol hadn't made it. He remembered waking up several times during the first weeks asking for her, only to go through it all over again when he remembered what happened.  
  
"Gah," Chris unfolded himself, scrubbing hands over his face. He squinted at the alarm clock, trying to tame the wriggling blue numbers to make out the time. Finally the numbers must have decided they had enough fun torturing his sleep deprived brain and settled down.  
  
0230  
  
Was it possible for him to sleep later then 0230? Lately it didn't seem like it.  
He didn't even contemplate trying to go back to sleep. Instead he heaved himself to his feet, joints cracking, and went in search of dry clothing. Chris was still shivering as he pulled clean boxers, t-shirt, and socks from the dresser. He peeled off his t-shirt, dropping it on to the chair by the door. He didn't want to risk it getting mixed in with anyone else's laundry and getting tossed out as a rag. Sure it was barely holding together, but it was his Eagles shirt.  
  
Chris padded down the hallway to the bathroom. A hot shower, long one at that, then maybe he could get back to sleep. The only good thing about two-thirty in the morning was that he could take a long hot shower, and the water heater had enough time to refill before the other two woke up.  
   
He dropped his clothes on the closed toilet seat lid and pulled the shower curtain back. Three handles. Why did there have to have three handles? He was never sure which handle did what. The one handle was much simpler. The world would work so much better if people only listened to him. Manipulating the handles Chris got the water set right and tossed his boxers and socks to join the mounding pile behind the door. They really should do laundry. But there was no Fluff n Fold across street. Damn.  
  
The warm water felt wonderful as it spewed out of the shower head and down on him. If the shower curtain would stop sticking to him, it'd be perfect. He'd managed to poke it away, making it cling to the fiberglass tub or tile wall, but it didn't matter. It always floated back to cling to his wet skin  
  
Motionless. He just stood there. The water worked its magic. The sweat sluicing away, taking the cold with it for the journey down the drain. It was nice.  
  
“GAH! What the…” Chris flattened himself against the shower wall as his warm water was exchanged with blistering hot. The stubborn shower curtain followed him, voiding his efforts as it channeled the water through its folds and right on to his thigh.  
  
Someone flushed.  
  
Water having reverted to its pre-blistering state, Chris quickly rinsed and stepped out, his mind quickly narrowing down his two suspects to one. Jack was out for the count, he had made sure of that earlier. The man had needed some serious sleep and Chris lent a hand. There was no way Jack would be up until at least six. That left Daniel.  
  
Clad in boxers and t-shirt, he threw his socks over one shoulder and stepped into the hallway. He moved back towards the bedrooms first, wanting to confirm that Jack was indeed asleep. Yep. Jack was out. Even with an injured knee, Jack had managed an awkward, head down, butt up in the air position that Chris was unable to fathom how it could possibly be comfortable. Chris shook his head at his friend and left.  
  
At the landing, he could see illumination coming from the lower level, the light dim, but obviously on. Daniel was still up.  He was probably buried in some book he brought with him. Trying to chase away unwanted memories, unwilling to let himself sleep until he collapsed.  
  
“Insomniac on crack.” Chris muttered, slowly descending the stairs. Yeah, so Daniel probably didn’t know that he was in the shower when he flushed. But the fact of the matter was that he had ruined the shower he was looking forward to, for all of three minutes. If Daniel had been in bed resting, possibly asleep, like the good Doc Frasier had ordered, the current situation could have been avoided.  
  
Coffee hung in the air. Kona Coffee. He'd get a cup, harass Daniel a bit, then try and go back to sleep. He wove his way through the furniture in the living room, his eyes adjusted easily to the subdued lighting of the dining room.    
  
Black letters stood out on the mix of white and tea colored papers that muddled the oak table top. An odd assortment of writing utensils, note cards, empty food wrappers and napkins, and toast crumbs joined the mess. And holding court over the domain was one Daniel Jackson, coffee mug imbedded in his left hand, mechanical pencil in his right, and headphones obscuring his ears.  
  
Chris paused in the doorway, unsure of what to do first, bother Daniel or get coffee. The coffee's scent was even stronger in here and Chris's mind was made up. He followed the scent into the kitchen, and immediately spotted the coffee maker. The overly bright digital numbers of the clock/timer made the Mr. Coffee, glow red in the dark kitchen. Keeping one eye on the coffee maker, Chris fumbled around in the drain rack for a clean mug. He filled his mug then backed out of the kitchen, leaving the evil Mr. Coffee alone.  
  
He circled the table, picking up various papers and books, written in a vast smattering of languages. The Spanish and French he easily understood. He recognized some of the others as well, an odd word here and there. A few German. A couple in Dutch. Overall, most of it was gibberish to him. Especially the Arabic script. He had learned quite a bit of the language from Jack, but the script itself, was lost on Chris. ‘Failure to click’ Jack had told him, very proud that he’d known something that Chris couldn’t get.  
  
It struck Chris as odd that Daniel still hadn't noticed him. The man was very particular about his things, artifacts, papers, books, you name it and it wasn't in his character to let anyone come in and start messing with it. He stopped walking, stopping right behind Daniel, and looked over Daniel's shoulder. What was it that was so captivating that Daniel would ignore Chris invading his territory?  
  
The characters on the page in Daniel's hand didn't make any sense. They were blocky, awkward symbols that wove up and down, often dropping down, entangling with the line below. He stood there, watching as Daniel compared them to a page in book, then make notes on a yellow legal pad, the movements jerky, near frantic, but fluid at the same time.    
  
Taking careful sips of his coffee he watched the younger man for some time. Once in a while, over the soft noise of fluttering paper and the scratching of graphite on paper grain, Chris could hear the music coming from Daniel’s headphones. They weren’t the usual white ear buds that came with the iPods he’d messed with in the store, these were quite similar to the ones the he owned. Almost oval shaped ear pieces that were connected to each other by a neckband that went around the back of the head.  
  
Tired of standing, he took his coffee and retreated to the other side of the table and took a seat. Daniel was still zoned out on his work and didn't notice the reshuffling of his paper. It was wrong, he knew that, but Chris couldn't help himself.  He pursed his lips and snuck a hand over to the iPod. Daniel's was larger and didn't have a click wheel like the ones he'd seen recently.  
  
The volume was up high enough that Chris was able to hear Alison Krauss's soft soprano quite clearly as she sang. He knew the song, I'll Fly Away, and the movie it was from, O Brother, Where Art Thou. He owned the soundtrack and the DVD as a matter of fact. It didn't stop him from toying with the iPod though.  
  
He flipped tracks a couple of times until he found the title song, I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow. Somewhat disappointed and a little worried over the lack of reaction that he received, Chris thumbed through the menu screen. Setting the music player to shuffle, he carefully placed the device back to how it had been before he picked it up. Chris sat back and drank his coffee, enjoying Dan Tyminski's vocals and guitar work.

 

* * *

 

Daniel squinted, his right eye pinching a little more then the left, skewing his view of the paper in front of him. It was bad enough that Balinsky had used a crap pen to write with. The ink had bled, creeping into the surrounding characters making it hard to distinguish individual characters. Blinking a few times, trying to clear the fatigue from his eyes, he took a sip of cold coffee and continued on to the next line.  
  
He was determined to go over Balinsky’s notes on the language the Hoonieyicchts spoke. There had to be something that he missed before the mission; something that would have enabled the Hoonieyicchts to understand him, and vice versa. Maybe it would have spared his teammates the pain that they had endured.  
  
Daniel hadn’t been able to sleep very well since the last mission. He kept replaying the mission in his head, trying to pinpoint the exact moment everything went wrong, and how he could have stopped it. Tonight, like most since Janet released him from the infirmary, Daniel combed through old notes and books, reviewing the languages he knew. He wanted to make sure he still remembered them. That he was able to recognize and understand them. SG1 depended on him, trusted him to bridge the communication gap between the local inhabitants and them. It was his job and he had failed. Daniel was determined not to let it happen again.  
  
Still keyed up from his earlier conversation with Chris, Daniel was finding it harder than usual to concentrate. He was still trying to figure the older man out. Find out what made him tick, and why Jack found it so easy to confide in the man. Jack had explained it, in his own way.  
  
“The difference between you and Chris," Jack had told him "is that I don’t care what he thinks about me. He doesn't matter one iota. Oh, yeah, I know we have been friends a long time, but I also know that the stubborn mother fucker will always land on his feet. That’s the difference between him and you Daniel - you don't”  
  
Daniel stopped writing, and reread the line he just finished. Tried to read it at least, he couldn't make out anything he wrote; flipped the pencil over to use the eraser, violently abrading the graphite letters from the paper. Sigh. He turned up the volume on his headphones, trying to drown out his own thoughts so he could concentrate on the information in front of him.  
  
It worked… turning the volume up. The harmonious, un-consuming music from a simpler time created a silent world around him. The music was there, yet it wasn't, enabling him to kick his addled, outside thoughts aside and focus on the task at hand. Finding out what went wrong, and ensuring that he wouldn't fail again. Isn't that what Jack always said? All you can do is look back at what happened and learn from it.  
  
They spoke Russian. Sort of. The Bittream and Hoonieyicchts spoke Russian like the people on Abydos spoke Egyptian. Vowel and accents were different but it wasn't hard to pick up, if you knew the language. Daniel would be the first to admit that he wasn't the best at Russian. His accent still need a little bit of work. That was why he had asked Balinsky and SG13 to accompany SG1 on the second mission to P13-1657.  
   
Daniel didn't have any problem talking with the Bittream, but the Hoonieyiccht's language was more removed from Russian. With a little coaching from the Bittream, Balinsky was able to pick it up, and they had spent many hours working together before the last mission. They were both so sure that Daniel would do fine. So what had gone wrong?  
  
Dan Tyminski's voice briefly caught his attention. Jack or Chris had talked about going to rent movies. Maybe he'd ask them to get O Brother, Where Art Thou. Daniel knew that Jack had enjoyed it immensely and thought it might appeal to Chris's boorish nature. He took another sip of coffee. It was nasty with a hint of stoneware but Daniel didn't want to get up. He was close to figuring it out. He could taste it in the bitter vetch remains of his coffee.  
  
Huh?  
  
Daniel's head shot up, eyes growing wide, eyebrows tenting, pulling his ears forward causing his headphones to shift ever so slightly at the sudden change to the heavy electric guitar cords of AC/DC.  
  
He stopped the play back on his iPod and pushed his headphones off, leaving them dangling over his shoulder against the back of the chair. Laughter. Deep, gut scraping laughter from across the table. Chris waggled his eyebrows at him and Daniel could see the mischievous glint hiding in his eyes.  
  
"Yes? Are you starving for attention?" Daniel asked, making eye contact before focusing his eyes back on the papers in front of him.  
  
"Nope. Just stopped by to say hi." A toothy grin accompanied his words  
  
"Then, hi. Now, go away. I'm busy." He looked back down at his work, dismissing Chris. He was so close to solving his puzzle that he didn't need or want any wrenches thrown into the works. Chris was a monkey with wrench. An evil monkey with a wrench that rivaled Siler's for size.  
  
"Ah but you see, I can't go away. I swore on the bedpan, the scalpel, and the needle, that I would make sure you two followed good ol’ Doc Frasier's orders. You remember them right?"  
  
Daniel looked up raising his eyebrows in question, watching as Chris started to tick things off with his fingers.  
  
"Take meds on time. Sleep. Eat right-no junky food. Sleep. No work. Relax. Sleep."

 

* * *

 

"And the point of your little triad here?"  
  
Chris looked at the man across from him. He was plainly exhausted, stress lines etched deep into his face, red irritated eyes with dark bags underneath. There was a small flick of wildness in them, and Chris knew it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge.  
  
"Working till the ass crack of dawn was not on the list. I can list it again if you want to check? Let's see take meds sleep..."  
  
"I get your point." Daniel put a hand up and he stopped "But I'm almost done. Just need to finish up this part here."  
  
It was a lie. Chris knew that if he left, Daniel would pretend to clear things up until he thought Chris was no longer in viewing or hearing range. Then he’d just turn around and go right back to work. It wasn’t good. Doctor Frasier and the general expected him to bring them back better, not worse.  
  
Chris put his mug down and pushed away from the table. Regaining his feet, he started to walk around the table, one hand trailing atop the scattered paper.  
  
"I'll spare you the work," He said stopping behind Daniel, leaning over the young man's shoulder, closing the open book and removing the pencil from Daniel's fingers. "The answer is: Be Sure To Drink Your Ovaltine."  
  
"What the hell did you do that for?" Daniel forcefully shoved himself away from the table, the chair legs screeching across the hard wood floor. Head still bent downward, the high wooden chair back narrowly missed his chin as it slammed right into Chris's chest.  
  
It was a move he had well rehearsed. Step up behind, right arm went up and around the shoulder, left arm lower, hooking around the waist, effectively pinning the other person’s arms to the sides. He’d relied on the move more than once in his profession, having to push a patient close to, or over the edge.  
  
He tightened his grip as Daniel started to object, giving half-hearted jerks and twists of his limbs and torso. Having learned from a previous encounter with Jack, Chris moved his head to the right, chin pressing into Daniel’s collar bone. His mouth right next to Daniel’s ear, he began to speak. A low, steady tone, each vowel and constant enunciated, leaving no room for misinterpretation.  
  
“Daniel, I was trying to get your attention by making light. I can see now that it was a mistake.” The tense muscles and tendons under his chin and fingers started to relax as what little fight there had been ebbed away.  “I will tell you flat out. You. Must. Go. To. Bed. Now. All of this shit, it will be here in the morning. I promise you. Now, I am going to let go. I will help you get things cleared up on the table, but you have to go to bed.”  
  
Chris let his arms drop away, taking a step back, giving Daniel space and some sense that he was still in control of himself.  
  
“But, it’s really important. I have to figure it out.” Daniel started to move toward the table, his words a desperate plea for understanding.  
  
“It will be there in the morning. It’s not like Jack is going to come down here and solve your self made crossword.”  
  
“But I’m so close now. It won’t take much longer. I’ll go right to bed after, I promise. I just have to know what I did wrong. ”  
  
Chris stood back, observing as Daniel tried to open the book and get his papers back into some semblance of order. He was failing, his uncoordinated movements only frustrating him more. Stepping up next to Daniel, he reached forward and removed the tormented papers, stilling the frantic hands.    
  
"Daniel, I'm not talking because I like the sound of my own voice. You need to give it up pal. You aren't doing yourself any favors. Your mind can't work under these conditions. Go to bed, sleep on it. Things come to us in dreams sometimes. Let yourself dream man. Just let it go for now. Please?”  
  
Daniel nodded resolutely, closing the front cover of the borrowed text.  
  
"All right," Chris put an arm over Daniel's shoulders, guiding him out of the room. "Now, come on, upstairs. I don't care what the general or Jack thinks it's fucking cold here this time of year.

 

* * *

 

‘Aww crap’ He had to stop sleeping like this. On his knees, bent over, head down, neck bent awkwardly to the side, arms tucked underneath, and butt held up high. Sure he had some good sleep. First night of dreamless sleep he’d had in oh-so-long. But the getting up in the morning was hell. It felt like his spine had been pulled down by gravity, all the vertebrae pooling at the base of his skull like chainmail would. The worst part about getting up though, had to be the cracking as his spine let go and fell back into position.  
  
He really didn’t want to move. Everything would be kosher until he moved. But Mother Nature could be rather persuasive and he was having a hard time not being swayed. Yes, that’s right. Colonel Jack O’Neill, soldier, slayer of false gods, was afraid to roll over. He gave in eventually.  
  
The pins and needles came immediately as he started the maneuver. His arm was rubber, flopping around next to him as he went to push himself over on to his side. This was the other side to sleeping like this. All of his limbs going to sleep, blood depravation and pinched nerves were painful when remedied. Whoever said a paper cut was the worst kind of pain had definitely never been in Jack O’Neill’s skin in the a.m... ‘Pain before relief.’ Jack thought to himself as he lay on his bed waiting for his body to become functional again.  
  
Jack finally managed to get upright, groaning as he stretched his arms above his head, trying to get gravity to fix the problem it caused. There was the comforting pull of the stitches in his abdomen. It was odd, Jack thought, to say that the pull of stitches could be comforting. But, right now, at this moment, it was. It squelched the fear that had been with him when they left P13-1657.  
  
He sat back down on the edge of the bed, scrunching his toes into the rug beneath his feet. It was an old braided rug, rough and nearly flattened from years of use that made him miss the soft pile carpet of his own bedroom. Rubbing his right thigh just above the knee, Jack reached over and grabbed his brace that was propped up against the night stand. He really didn’t want to use it, but his leg was feeling shaky and there as no use tempting fate.  
  
Brace on, Jack got back to his feet and slowly made his way down the hallway to the bathroom. It was chilly this morning, the skin on his arms and legs contracting to form goose bumps. It didn’t bother Jack. He liked it. The chilly weather was good for sleeping, when you could sleep. Chris on the other hand, Jack was tired of listening to him moan about how cold it was. He gave him a little lee way though, knowing how painful the man’s ankle could be when it got cold.  
  
Business taken care off, he slowly made his way down the stairs. Sweaty palms and fingers grasping the polished rail, turning his knuckles white. He’d briefly considered putting socks on before he left his room, now as he took each step one at a time, he was glad he didn’t. Bare feet gave him better traction on the wooden stair treads. He let out a low groan when he got to the bottom, stiff and abused muscles protesting their movements. ‘Yeah, he really needed to start sleeping in a better position’  
  
The simple scent of fresh coffee was already helping to wake him up. It wasn't the usual coffee though; it was some fancy shit that Chris or Daniel brought with them. The two of them couldn't agree on anything other then coffee. Maxwell House wasn't good enough for them. Kona and Blue Hawaiian--stuff that cost more per pound than a tank of gas--that was what they considered good coffee. Jack was just fine with Maxwell House but, occasionally he'd get something better, like a Green Mountain blend. Tomorrow he'd have to make sure he got up first, he just wanted a simple cup of coffee.    
  
He passed through the dinning room, and noticed Chris slumped over the table with his face hovering above the mug. If the mug was bigger Jack was sure Chris' entire face would be in it. Chris looked up gave a grunt and went back to his coffee. Jack replied with a grunt of his own then limped into the kitchen.  
  
Jack pulled a mug off the back of the counter, wiping the inside out with the hem of his t-shirt before filling it. He knew it should be clean but finding dust bunnies in your morning coffee was a bad omen. Mug filled, Jack turned around and leaned against the counter, settling weight on his left leg. Breakfast sounded good but his brain wasn't functioning on that level yet. Maybe later. After coffee.  
  
Chris stumbled into the kitchen, and Jack winced in sympathy when he knocked his hip on the island counter. The man looked like shit. Like he'd been out on a recon mission and had no sleep.  
  
"You look like shit." Jack stated plainly, taking another sip of his coffee. "Maybe you should lay off the coffee and go lay in a bed."  
  
"Tried that." Chris gave him a dirty look as he refilled his cup. "Little problem with people deciding that three a.m. is a good time to do stuff."  
  
"Daniel? He was working wasn't he?" Jack asked, holding back a chuckle as he saw the lettering on the side of Chris's mug 'Don't bother me I'm crabby'.    
  
"All I wanted was a shower. The little rat fink ruined my shower." Chris muttered, mouth still attached to mug.  
  
Jack raised an eyebrow, "How does Daniel working ruin your shower? And why are you taking a shower at three a.m. anyways?"  
  
“If he wasn’t working then he wouldn’t have been drinking coffee.  If he wasn’t drinking coffee then he wouldn’t have had to use the toilet. And if he didn’t have to take a piss then he would not have flushed the toilet, thus ruining my shower by trying to scald my bits off.”  
  
Jack closed his eyes and bit down on his bottom lip. He couldn’t help it though and his laughter surfaced.  
  
“You think this is funny?” Chris glared at him from across the island “Mr. Play-Music-Loudly-at-Three-A.M. and wake me up”  
  
“I never put your bits in any danger.”  
  
It was Chris's turn to raise an eyebrow in question.  
  
"That was a long time ago. Anyways," Jack responded, deciding to change the subject." what did you do about Daniel?"  
  
"Oh screwed with his iPod. We talked. We argued. We fought. I won. He went to bed. I made coffee. Same old, same old."  
  
"What did you do to the iPod?" Jack inquired, slightly worried.  
  
"Put it on shuffle. It switched from folk music to AC/DC." Chris snickered, remembering the look on Daniel's face.  
  
His eyebrows rose again, moving to sit down on one of the barstools around the island. "AC/DC?"  
  
"Oh yeah." Chris grabbed the carafe from the coffee maker refilling his mug then Jack's. "Daniel is as bad as you guys said. He was dead on his feet last night when I came down here; obsessed over trying to figure something out. He said he had to know so he could stop it from happening again."  
  
"He thinks it’s his fault"  
  
"What's his fault? The whole Hoonieyiccht-Bittream debacle?"  
  
"Yeah. I'd bet everything I own, even my bits, that Daniel believes the entire war started because he can't speak perfect Russian. He's probably trying to figure out what word he might have missed that caused the Hoonieyicchts to wake up with their panties in a twist and go commit genocide."  
  
"Hmmm." Chris nodded and Jack could see the wheels beginning to turn in this friends head.  
  
"Daniel's still a bit insecure about his place on the SG teams. He proved himself a long time ago but, he doesn't see it that way."  
  
Chris nodded again and they lapsed into silence. Jack was worried about Daniel and the guilt the younger man mistakenly carried. Hopefully he gave Chris just enough insight that he could help. His stomach was starting to protest the liquid only contents, making breakfast to sound really good to Jack. He really didn't feel like cooking though, or taking a chance with Chris's cooking. The man put curry in the oddest of things.  
  
"Breakfast?" Chris asked, getting up and taking his mug to the sink.  
  
"Dur Vawful Hoss?" Jack purposefully butchered the German pronunciation making the other man laugh.  
  
"The Waffle House is it. You wanna grab a shower down here? I'll bring some clothes down so you don't have to do the stairs with your knee again."  
  
"Sounds good. Thanks. Wake Daniel up and ask him if he wants to go."  
  
"If I must. He'll just grumble that first I want him to sleep, and now I want him to wake up. "  
  
"For Christ’s sake stop, your whining. I swear Jepp, you're worse than some of the women I know."

 

* * *

 

Daniel woke slowly. Despite his not wanting to go to sleep, once asleep he didn’t want to wake up. He was comfortable and warm, and for a short time, at peace with the universe. But the smell of coffee lured him from his sleep. Hooked him under the nose and yanked him awake. ‘Chris is an ass, but he always makes good coffee.’ Daniel thought to himself as he lay sprawled on his bed.  
  
He really needed to get up. Get some coffee then a shower and he could get back to work. Daniel turned his head to the side to look out at the clock on the side table. God, he reeked. Maybe a shower first. Then coffee.  
  
It was that whole getting up thing that was ruining his plans. He laid there, bonelessly, listening as Jack’s uneven gait moved down the hallway and the creak of the stairs as his friend made his way down one at a time. Jack was up, that put the coffee in danger. Either he’d sling it back unappreciative of its full body flavor or he’d pour it out complaining that coffee should be simple and he was tired of the fancy crap.  
  
‘Damn Chris’ Daniel’s mind shifted gears back to a few hours before.  He had been so close to figuring out the piece to the puzzle. Figuring out what he said wrong that sent the Hoonieyicchts off on their murder spree. But no, Chris had to go stick his nose into other people’s business. Wasn’t it enough that Chris had railroaded him into coming here?  
   
Daniel didn’t know what it was about the other man that irritated him. Maybe a little bit of it was jealousy over the evident bond between Jack and Chris. Nearly eight years of friendship between he and Jack, and Chris waltzes in and Jack is spilling his guts. And Daniel guessed he was happy that Jack could talk to someone, but it still smarted that it wasn’t him. That it was some know-it-all shrink with a funny accent to boot.  
  
Bladder screaming for his attention, Daniel finally fought his way into an upright position. He stayed still for a few minutes while his body adjusted to being vertical. All he really needed was to stand up and fall over. The thud of his body hitting the floor would bring Jack and Chris running upstairs and he didn’t think he could deal with the humiliation of that.    
  
Standing up, he stretched arms above his head, back arched and on the balls of his feet. His stitches still pulled and he couldn't wait until they came out. They itched too, felt like ants were racing across each of the 'incisions'. Maybe, just maybe he'd be nice enough to Chris long enough to convince him to take them out early.  
  
Nah, the man would make him leave them in. Wanker.  
  
Daniel made his way to the door, peeling his sticky feet off the floor with each step. Yawning and scratching his stomach Daniel opened the door to come face to face with Chris.  
  
"Oh good, I don't have to wake you up." Chris sounded rather...cheery.  
  
Daniel gave him a dirty, questioning look and stepped around the older man, and headed into the bathroom, pulling his shaving kit out.  
  
"Well fine, be like that." Chris called after him. "I was just coming to see if you wanted to go to the waffle house for breakfast with us."  
  
"Food. I don't know.” Daniel answered rinsing the shaving cream off his hands. “The coffee there is mostly horrible."  
  
"I'm not sure the food is much better on any given day." Chris countered, leaning against the door frame.  
  
“The service is questionable and the waitress can be so snotty sometimes."  
  
"At least you don't have to worry about your food being tossed out to Rocky raccoon"  
  
"There is that.” Daniel thought for a moment, rinsing his razor out in the sink and turning the water off. “I guess I'll go. I might have an appetite by the time we get there. Can you wait for me to shower real fast?"  
  
Daniel didn’t wait for an answer and lightly kicked the door shut.  
  
“Yeah, sure, no problem. Jack’s in the shower downstairs so just don’t…flush.”  
  
‘Oops too late’ Daniel winced. He could hear Jack yelling about the water hitting his back and Chris, of course, yelled back.  
  
“Oh suck it up Jack, don’t be a wuss. At least it was your back.” The stairs creaked and Daniel knew Chris was going down to head Jack off.  
  
Daniel hurriedly got through the shower. He wouldn’t put it past Chris, or Jack even, to try and get even with him and he didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary under the spray from the shower head.  Daniel’s first shower at the cabin was how they found about the plumbing in the first place, so he and Jack would be even now, he hoped.  
  
Towel around his waist, Daniel traveled back to his room, catching himself on the hallway walls when his wet feet slid on the polished wood. He could still hear Jack and Chris arguing downstairs. They seemed to argue more than actually talk and it made him wonder even more how they managed to be friends.  
  
‘But then again, Jack and I argue all the time. Though, we usually don’t result to name calling every time.’  
  
He dressed fast. Underwear, jeans and a sweater, shoes and socks, all slipped on and into with precision. Slipping his wallet into his back pocket, he picked up his towel running it over his hair as he left the room. When his hair was first cut short a couple of years ago, he was going to grow it out again, but now he liked it short. He just had to run a towel over it and be done.  
  
“Damn it Chris. You don’t have to cut the circulation off to my foot to tie a shoe.”  
  
Daniel entered the living room to find Jack suffering through having to have Chris put his shoe on his right foot. His friend hated to have to accept help and Daniel was sure Chris wasn’t making it any easier to swallow.  
  
He jumped at Jack’s yell. “Daniel! Save me from this fiend!”  
  
“Nah, you’ll be okay. You’re the Great Jack O’Neill.”  
  
“See, no need to worry Jack. Daniel trusts me.” Chris put Jack’s foot down and stood up.  
  
“That’s only because he doesn’t know you.” Jack glared at Chris before turning back to him. “Are we ready yet? I’m starving.”  
  
“I’m ready.” Daniel said walking over to give Jack a hand up off of the couch. Jack’s little jaunt outside the other day had stressed his knee and he was having a hard time getting around.  
  
They made their way outside and down the few steps off of the porch. Chris was driving. Daniel didn’t pray often, and he knew Jack didn’t either, but it said a lot to see Jack cross himself and pray before getting in the Jeep. The back seat seemed safer to Daniel. Chris was Jack’s friend, Jack could ride up front.  
  
“Everyone got their belts on?”  
  
“Trust me, it’s on.” Daniel answered Chris, wondering if it would do any good if they crashed while Chris was driving  
  
“Jack?”  
  
“Yes it’s on.” Daniel could see Jack rolling his eyes in the side mirror. “Jepp? Please remember this isn’t England. We drive on the right side of the road.”  
  
Chris exploded. “Screw you man. You think you can get there with your decrepit body? Just let me know, I'll turn the damn keys over to you right now. You'd bitch if I hung you with a new rope. Just shut up. Buckle up. And let's go. I'm starving already and I don't need any comments from the fucking peanut gallery here. Got it?”  
  
“It’s not The Autobahn either.” Daniel chipped in from the back.  
  
He turned around in his seat to face Daniel. “That goes for you too Dr.-I-Got-A-Vocabulary-To-Stunt-Growth-With.”  
  
Daniel raised his eyebrows, a small smile playing on his face, not saying a word. Chris turned around in his seat muttering under his breath. Jack was visibly shaking with contained laughter and Daniel grinned. It was fun getting Chris riled up. The engine revved and Daniel gripped the handle on the door, as Chris floored it out of the drive and on to the gravel road.  
  
~*~  
  
Daniel thanked the waitress and sat back to drink his coffee. It wasn't nearly as bad as he expected. Better than the stuff served in the commissary, this stuff didn't give him a sudden fear of it mutating out of his cup and attacking him at the table. Chris on the other hand, he was damn near worshiping the cup the coffee was corroding.  
  
Chris's face hovered over the top of the cup as it rested on a saucer plate on the table. Daniel watched as he took several long deep breaths, inhaling the scent of the mediocre brew. The older man carefully picked up the cup and took a drink; a satisfied, cheeky grin spread across his face as he set the cup on the saucer once again.  'Okay that was odd,' Daniel thought to himself and took another sip from his own cup. 'The man who waxed poetic about fine coffee, who refuses to drink regular coffee, is thoroughly enjoying the mud from a waffle house.'  
  
Shaking his head, Daniel gave up trying to make sense out of it and turned his attention to his other friend. Jack’s chair was pushed back and he was leaning forward with his chin resting on the edge of the table. There were creamer cups stacked in front of him in some intricate, complex pattern that only Jack would know. Their waitress, who was making the rounds with the coffee pot, shook her head at Jack as she stepped around his chair.  
  
Daniel looked on as his friend carefully scouted his surroundings, then got up and snatched another ceramic bowl of creamer containers, spilling its contents on the table then turning the bowl upside down and adding it to the three other ones already on the table.  
  
Jack put his chin back down on the table and Daniel finally gave in and asked "Dare I ask what you are doing with all the creamers?"  
  
Jack didn't even change focus answering. "I'm building."  
  
"What are you building?"  
  
Jack sat up, tilting his head back and forth contemplating his structure. He pointed to it, opening his mouth to speak but, Daniel held up a finger cutting him off. "Ah, don't say it Jack"  
  
"What?" Jack tried to look wounded.  
  
"Don't say 'This means something.' If you do, I'll be forced to hurt you."  
  
"And that would ruin this lovely meal." Chris was grinning as he joined the conversation. "What is that anyways?"  
  
Jack shrugged and went back to building. Daniel studied the structure. The creamers were arranged around the salt shaker, framing it, forming an octagon. At least that's what he thought, creamers weren't all that good at forming straight lines, and Jack probably had his own opinion of what it was supposed to be.  
  
He flicked his eyes at Chris, finding him holding his cup up near his mouth, taking sips as he watched Jack. It looked familiar, really familiar but he could not place it. Did he see it on world or off? In person or in a book? Jack got up again, spinning awkwardly on his heels to grab the black plastic holder of jelly packets from another table, and then plopped back down on his chair.  
  
Daniel supposed it was good that the waffle house wasn't very busy. He doubted Jack's creamer and jelly raiding missions would have been tolerated otherwise. A napkin slid across the table, and he turned to see Chris looking at him, his brow raised in question.  Daniel looked down at the napkin, crude pencil drawings, resembling Jack's condiment creation from an overhead perspective and a large question mark next to it were on the napkin.  Chris didn’t have a clue what he was constructing either.  
  
Looking at Chris, he shrugged. “I don’t have a clue.”  
  
“Me neither, but he seems rather focused on it.”  
  
“Yeah” He nodded in agreement and turned back to study the napkin drawing; a circle, surrounded by an octagon, all of which was now being surrounded by a jelly packet wall.  
  
‘Ahhhhh’ He knew what it was, could see it pictured in his mind; a gold dome on an octagonal building, surrounded by a limestone wall. It was so clear, he just couldn’t think of it.  
  
The waitress, Wanda, came by again; filling his and Chris’s cups and giving Jack an exasperated look, but said nothing. There were five empty creamer bowls and three jelly packet holders now, and Jack didn’t seem to be slowing down. Customers, the few that were there, were starting to stare, watching as he started to construct more things around it.   Jack was oblivious.  
  
Daniel picked the napkin up, holding it so that it was next to the thing Jack was working on. It couldn’t be. Why would Jack build that? He shut his eyes, squeezing them hard, trying to banish the image from his mind. Opened again, his eyes didn’t lie.  
  
He’d been there before; an octagonal stone building with gold dome. It was Temple Mount, Jerusalem. There was a place on P13-1657 that looked similar; even named similar now that he thought about. Temple Mount, Mount Temple. Which all made sense, seeing as he and Balinsky hazarded a guess that the Bittream and Hoonieyiccht’s religion was close to what was Judaism on earth.  
  
“Mount Temple.” That’s what the Bittream had called it.  
  
“What did you say Daniel?”  
  
“Huh?” Hearing his name drew him back from his thoughts. He sat back up in his chair, wishing the seats were padded.  
  
“You said something I was just wondering what it was.” Chris sat across from him, leaning forward with his arms crossed on the table, his empty cup on the saucer in front of him.  
  
“Mount Temple...Umm. It’s what the Bit...” Daniel caught himself from saying the names in public. Pushing his glasses back up he continued, “It’s what they called the building that stood between the two provinces, for lack of a better term. It looks remarkably like the Dome of the Rock at the Temple Mount site in Jerusalem. I thought it was interesting because it’s a Muslim shrine here, but there it was a neutral site for both parties to meet and discuss matters.”  
  
“So they were Muslim?”  
  
“No. As far as Balinsky and I could put together they are Jewish. Well, not exactly. You have to remember that religion like most things in society evolves over time. So they may have been started as the same as Judaism here but over time, and not to mention distance, things are bound to have changed.” He picked up his cup of now-cold coffee and took a drink. It was worrisome that the stuff tasted marginally better cold.  
  
“That makes sense.” Chris paused and Daniel could tell he was thinking about something. "So, you found out how they worshiped and saw their place of worship; was that the reason for the war?"  
  
Daniel looked up sharply, snapping his head away from the fake, granite pattern, laminate table top to look Chris in the eye. Chris’s hazel eyes bore back at him with frightening intensity. It was unnerving. Daniel wasn’t prepared to answer. He didn’t know the answer. And he knew that Chris knew it.  
  
That was the question he was trying so hard to answer. What had provoked the Hoonieyicchts into mass murder? However, Jack’s side project with creamers and jelly may have given him a new lead to check out. Maybe they did something that wasn’t ‘kosher.’  
  
“Daniel?”  
  
Chris was calling at him but he couldn’t take his attention away from the building that Jack was still working on. Maybe that was it. Maybe he had gone somewhere that he should not have gone. But he’d never been to the Hoonieyiccht ‘province’.  
  
“Daniel!” Chris poked him this time, waving a hand in front of his face. He tore his focus away from Jack.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You zoned out there for a moment.”  
  
“Oh, sorry. It’s just that you gave me an idea to follow up on. Anyways, that’s where they took us,” Daniel waved a hand at Jack’s buildings “when we were first taken ‘into custody, before we were interrogated.”  
  
Wood screeching against tile brought their attention back to their mutual friend. Jack scooted his chair back up closer to the table. He had stopped building and was now carefully examining it, head tilting every which way, eyes constantly scanning the table top. It was like he’d never seen it before.  
  
The taut demeanor of his best friend was worrisome. He’d stopped moving. His jaw was clenched and his eyes, normally brown in color, were near black and unfocused. Daniel flashed a quick look to the man sitting opposite of him; Chris had noticed it too.  
  
“Jack, let it go man. It’s over.” Chris’s voice was calm and steady, surprising Daniel somewhat as he tried to talk Jack back. “Come on Jack, Wanda’ll be back over here in a minute with our food. Remember? Hash browns, eggs, bacon. You were practically drooling over the thought of it in the car. Hell Jack, you even managed to charm her into giving you french toast instead of pancakes.”  
  
Chris kept talking but Daniel didn’t think it was working. Jack’s breathing had started to increase and there was sweat on his forehead. He took a quick survey of the surrounding tables. It was relatively empty, most of the other customers having left. Wanda was standing at the line filling her tray with their plates. He focused back on the situation at hand. Jack was relaxed.  
  
Daniel flicked his eyes back and forth between Chris and Jack. Chris was still talking, going on about something that happened long ago. He didn’t think the topic really mattered, more of the constant tone of voice, something to ground him to.  Jack blinked, several times bringing his hands up to rub his face, raking back into his hair.    
  
Was it over?  
  
Wanda was there, standing next to him, across from Jack, where the empty seat was. The tray, laden with food, was held up high by her shoulder. He turned to look up at her, hoping to stall off any inquiries into what was going on. That’s when he saw it; a blur of bandage white and red coming from between Chris and Jack. It swooped down and through the creamer cup and jelly packet monument.  
  
It was fascinating how sometimes it seemed as if time slowed down. That’s what it felt like to Daniel, watching the creamers and jelly scatter. Some flying upward, somersaulting, before falling gracelessly to the table. Others, taking off like missiles in all directions. The salt shaker hit the edge of another table, salt cascading down over the unfortunate creamers. But time, as usual, went back to normal, everything suddenly crashing down around them.  
  
Wanda gasped and jumped back, upsetting her balance and sending the tray tilting downward. Plates full of hot food slid off, shattering on contact with the red, quarry tiled, floor.  Jack was getting out of his chair, eyes bright and darting, breaths coming in huffs as he looked for the quickest exit and went for it, the plastic creamers and jelly yielding, spilling their contents under his feet. Daniel shoved himself back from the table planning to go after him.  
  
“Let him go.” Chris stepped in front of him, raising his hands pushing back against his chest.  “He’ll be okay Daniel. Let’s get this mess cleared up.”  
  
Nodding, Daniel took a step back, running a hand through his hair, taking in the sticky mish-mash of food and ceramics bonded together by syrup on the floor.

 

* * *

 

“So, the waffle house?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What were ya building?”  
  
“The Mount Temple on P13-1657.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I don’t know. I didn’t start out meaning to make it. I was just messing with the creamers. Do it all the time. Or the coasters at Chili’s. Dozens of times. Waiting means having nothing to do. Nothing to do means your mind can wander. Idle hands and all.”  
  
“But you’ve never violently destroyed your work before. Not to my knowledge at least.”  
  
“No, today was definitely a first. ... It’s just that I couldn’t stand to look at it any more. Not after remembering everything. Having it all replay in full Technicolor in my head.”  
  
“Sort of killing your bete noire by proxy?”  
  
“Yeah. I guess you could put it like that.”  
  
“Feel any better?”  
  
“Maybe a little, but no, not really. Embarrassed more than anything.”  
  
“That was a scene.  Scared the life out of the waitress. I talked it over with the manager. Got everything sorted out.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Anytime.” ... “You gonna be okay?”  
  
“I think so. Not now, not soon. But later.”  
  
“It’ll take time. But you’ll be okay. That, for sure, you can trust me on.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Good. By the way, you owe me.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“The nice, hefty, tip I gave the waitress.”

 

* * *

 

 “Oh for fuck’s sake.”  
  
It was too much to ask for wasn’t it? One night of sleep. One full night. After the last two or three nights of early morning crises involving nightmares--both theirs and his own-- loud music, physical confrontations, coffee addicted, self deprecating, shower ruining, insomniacs, not to mention the previous days events at the waffle house, he just wanted one full night of sleep.  What did he do to earn this? Did he piss in someone’s cornflakes in a previous life?  
  
Groaning he rolled out of bed, nearly falling as his legs refused to support his weight. He caught himself on the night table; elbows locked, trying to keep himself from hitting the floor.  Feet finally awake, Chris stood up and grabbed his sweat pants off the footboard and took a curious sniff.  
  
That was a bad idea. Very bad. Blowing several puffs of air out his nose to try and rid himself of the smell, Chris threw the pants in the dirty laundry pile and pulled a clean set from the dresser.  If he was getting drug out of his warm sack at 0230 in the morning, again, he was taking his dear sweet time and going in comfort.  
  
Jack was still asleep, probably passed out on his back, dead to the world, judging by the sound of his snoring. As he made his way down the hall he wished he would have grabbed a pair of socks. The wood floor was cold and the tile on the floor below would be worse. Shoes may have been a better choice; after all, the sound of a coffee pot smashing against the Corian counter top and the requisite cursing afterward is what woke him. Hindsight was a bitch.  
  
Chris thought through his plan of attack as he descended the stairs. Get Daniel taken care. Off to bed on his own, drugged if needed. Clean up the inevitable mess in the kitchen. Shower, hopefully with no help from flushing toilets. Go to the 24 hour Walmart get new coffee pot or maker.  
  
“Yeah, right. It won’t be that easy.” Chris muttered as he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to go to the dinning room.  
  
The living room glowed blue as the muted TV played some late night rerun of Dr. Phil. He couldn’t stand Dr. Phil, he irritated Chris the same way news reporters did, but without the hair. That, however, was made up for by a shiny bald head. Someone really needed to tell Dr. Phil that Turtle Wax was for cars, not the domes of big, overpaid, redneck shrinks.  
  
The coffee table was littered with papers and books and Chris recognized it as the stuff Daniel was working on from last night; the Cyrillic alphabet page in the book and the notepads and pages Daniel had been looking at. There was an empty Oreo package and coffee mug on the table next to the remote. Picking up the remote, he aimed it at the TV, putting the crying woman out of her misery.  
  
With the TV off, the living room was dark, but light from the dining room made it easy to get out of the maze of furniture and into the other room. The table was the same as it had been the night before, just a bigger version of the coffee table. There was a stereo in the corner, smaller than the system in the living room having only a CD player and AM/FM radio. The radio was playing and some graveyard disc jockey reading advertisements about the nearest strip club. Daniel wasn’t in the dining room, so he continued into the kitchen.    
  
“Shit.” Chris cursed as he pushed open the door to the kitchen, his bare feet contacting the ceramic kitchen floor tile. A cold breeze slammed into him and his eyes shot to the open door that led to the deck. It was open.  
  
Scoping out the kitchen he found the shards of glass from the coffee pot on the floor in a puddle of still steaming coffee, the Mr. Coffee lying next to it cracked and busted. There was blood too; a small pool near the coffee machine, some on the broken glass and bloody footprints that tracked across the cream ceramic tile the door to the deck.  
  
Broken shards of glass, and bloody footprints. It was just getting better and better.  
  
Chris spotted a pair of boots by the open door; he could get them and stay clear of the glass.  He grabbed them pulling them on without sitting down. They looked like Jack’s and as Chris slid his bare feet into them he hoped the other man didn’t have athlete’s foot or some other infection.  
  
Wrapping his arms around his chest and tucking his hands under his arms, Chris stepped outside onto the deck. Heaven help Daniel if he had to go chasing after him. It was bad enough the coffee maker was now shot, he was not in the mood to go chasing people down in the hours before the butt crack of dawn, in woods he wasn’t familiar with. If he couldn’t see Daniel, he’d just leave him out here; it was only in the upper thirties, he’d be okay.  
  
Okay, so the niggling voice in the back of his head was right. He would go after Daniel regardless of what he felt. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be extremely disgruntled over it, or not let the other man know about it.  
  
Thankfully it didn’t take long to find Daniel. His white t-shirt stood out like a beacon. He was in the far corner of the deck, where the security light didn’t quite reach. Seated on the wide deck railing, his back up against the house, legs bent with his feet planted flat on the railing. Chris walked over, stopping next to him and leaning against the house.  
  
“So, the coffee pot?” He said casually waiting for the rods and cones in his eyes to get their act together and adjust to the lack of light.  
  
“Sorry ‘bout that.” Chris could hear the wince in Daniel’s voice.  
  
“Just be thankful that there’s a Walmart in town open 24 hours.”  
  
Eyes having finally adjusted, he could make out Daniel nodding his head. He tried to take in the other man’s appearance. Socks, pajama pants that had a hole in one knee, he could see pale skin showing through, and a t-shirt. Daniel sniffed occasionally; the cold air wasn’t doing him any good.  
  
“Why don’t we go inside?”  
  
“You’re not my friend so don’t act like one;” Daniel ground out, letting his head drop back to thunk against the house.  
  
“You’re right; I’m not your friend. But I’m Jack’s, and so are you. He’d have my head if I let you stay out here all night.”  
  
“In case you may have missed it, I am an adult, I can take care of myself.” Daniel shifted position, swinging his legs around to dangle on the deck side, facing Chris, and Chris got a glimpse of the bleeding cut on Daniel’s knee.  
  
“Yes, you do such a good job of it; sitting outside in pajama pants and a t-shirt in near freezing temperatures, and bleeding no less.”  
  
Daniel hopped to his feet, awkwardly advancing toward Chris, “I don’t know what you are trying to do, but saving me, or whatever you think it is, won’t bring your friend back, Dr. Jeppeson.”  
  
Chris reacted, like a bomb at the end of its fuse, his right arm came arching across, catching Daniel along the jaw with enough force to snap his head back, but remain upright.  
  
"Don't you ever take pot shots like that at me again." Chris turned the tables and advanced on Daniel, his voice low and throaty, enunciating every syllable as he backed Daniel up against the railing. "Are we clear?"  
  
Daniel nodded; eyes wide.  
  
"Good. Now that I have your attention; get back inside, get cleaned up while I clean up the kitchen. Then, you have some explaining to do, woke me up two nights in a row you're gonna talk."

 

* * *

 

Daniel stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, fingering the swelling on his jaw. There would be a bruise for sure. He hadn't expected Chris to hit him. He was a psychiatrist; he should be in to that whole how-does-it-make-you-feel thing. He had thought that Chris was some kind of pacifist, going by the career change form soldier to doctor. Though, he did sorta hit below the belt with that remark, and Chris made it quite clear as to what he was feeling. He was just trying to get the other man to leave him alone, but it backfired.  
  
  
Guess he was wrong all along. Just this once, he'd wish Jack had kept his friends to himself. Would have saved them all a lot of aggravation. Turning the light off, he limped back to the kitchen. Even though it had bled a lot, the cut on his knee wasn't bad. A glob of antibiotic ointment, and a large bandage, he was good as new. Now, if only the bandage wouldn’t pull at his leg hairs.  
  
Rounding the corner he found Chris standing at the dining room table, sifting through the papers and books that covered the top. Daniel watched as he circled the table, picking things up, looking at them, then dropping them back to the table, completely ruining the organization.  
  
‘The man was too nosey for his own good.’ Daniel walked over and pulled a chair out, plopping down, crossing his arms across his chest. It'd take him forever to sort through the mess Chris was making.  
  
“The way I see it,” Chris started to talk, still walking around, examining the table. “You have to talk to someone eventually, and you have a choice between me or that crack-head Mackenzie.”  
  
Daniel didn’t answer. Yeah, he’d have to talk to someone if he wanted to go through the gate again, but maybe that would be a good thing. Not going through the gate. He could stay at the SGC and work on base, on the backlog of artifacts and translation jobs. He could stick to what he knew.  
  
Or, he could chuck it all and go live like a monk in Tibet.  
  
That Tibetan monk thing was looking more and more appealing. He knew that Chris would ask the question. The same question that everyone wanted to know the answer to, including himself. ‘What went wrong?’  
  
They always expected him to know. And he should, shouldn’t he? He was the linguist, the archeologist, the sometimes anthropologist. He’d dropped the ball this time, and after all his searching, he’d yet to find out why.  
  
But as appealing as the Tibetan monk gig was, Daniel knew he’d never go for it. He’d talk enough to appease the shrinks and be cleared to go offworld. In the meantime though, he'd prepare, review all the languages he knew. Testing himself on the hardest parts until he knew them without thinking.  
  
Daniel couldn't stand it anymore; watching Chris toy with his books and papers. He got up and pulled the papers from Chris' hands, "Would you stop that. You've botched it all up."    
  
He scanned the tabletop, looking for the correct place to put the papers. But he couldn't find it. It was gone, missing, covered up somewhere. Something snapped, and Daniel found himself detached from what was going on; a voyeur in his own mind.  
  
It was crazy, he knew it, but he couldn't stop. He could hear his thoughts, the internal repeating of some disjointed mantra as his manic hands desperately tried to reorganize his things.  
  
He could see Chris standing by him, talking; asking him some question that he couldn't reply to. Chris wouldn't understand anyhow. He'd never been through the gate. He'd never cost an entire race their lives, and watched helplessly as his teammates were tortured. How could he possibly help?  
  
He was back in his mind and sort of in control. Chris was talking to him; trying to get his attention still. Trying to get him to explain what he was doing. But he couldn't explain. He was too busy.  
  
Ah, finally he found the spot he was looking for. A red notebook, the wire coil smashed and contorted from years of abuse, since he used it the semester he took Hebrew in college. He saved most of his notebooks, the ones that were savable. They came in handy. Like now, when he was revising, relearning, to make sure he knew everything.  
  
"Daniel, stop!" Chris shouted at him that time, grabbing his upper arms and pulling him away from the table.  
  
"I can't stop." He fought back, torquing his torso and forcing his elbows outward. Damn it. Chris was stronger than he looked, but he managed to free himself.  


* * *

 

"Why? Why can't you stop?" Chris demanded, getting in Daniel's face. This wasn't how he planned to do things, but he learned early on in his career that sometimes you just have to go with the flow. Everyone was different and there was no use trying to force cookie cutter methods of psychology.  
  
"Because I have to learn. I have to know. It's my job to know all of this." Daniel swept an arm wide over the table, the words pouring out of his mouth so fast he could hardly keep up. "It's my job to communicate. To understand the cultures we meet."  
  
"But what are you doing here?" he pointed to the full table.  
  
"Look, you don't understand, I dropped the ball, and I have to find out why!"  
  
"How are you going to do that Daniel? How is staying up all night, exhaustively sifting through all this paper and ink going to give you the answers? You can't live on coffee and no sleep, your body shuts down. "  
  
"You just don't get it." Daniel yelled at him. "The Bittream are gone. They. No. Longer. Exist. An entire race, a culture, is wiped out. Gone. And it's my fault and I have to find out why?"  
  
Chris watched as Daniel wandered around the room, one hand continuously alternating between rubbing the back of his neck and scratching his head. He was processing something, Chris was sure of that. He was trying to understand. Why was Daniel feeling this much responsibility for the Hoonieyicchts getting a bug up their ass and deciding to off the other people? Yes, it was bad, horrible, and Chris wished it had never happened. But what was it that made Daniel feel responsible for what happened?  
  
"I'm one of the first people to interact with the cultures we come across. It all depends on what I say or do. I have to get it right the first time. The natives can be like Jack sometimes with 'shoot first and ask questions later.'  I can't let my team down. I can't let Hammond down. I can't let Earth down." Daniel stopped walking, standing with his eyes closed and pinching the bridge of his nose, the arms on his glasses barely hanging on to his ears.  
  
"So what, this makes you god now? All mighty Dr. Daniel Jackson." Chris leaned forward, fisted hands pushing down against the table. "But wait a minute. I see a problem here. Aren't you fighting AGAINST false gods?"  
  
Daniel sputtered, mouth opening and shutting, tongue flicking around, in and out and he tried to conjure up some response.  
  
"I do not think I'm a god. I don't believe you even just said that. I'm on a first contact team. That's a hell of a lot of responsibility. A responsibility that's gotten oh-so-many people injured and killed.  And here I thought you'd understand that, seeing as you’ve been a soldier and all."  
  
"Yes, I was a soldier, and I learned a few things. Rule Number One: People die. Rule Number Two: You can't change rule number one"  
  
"You see, that's the difference. Maybe Jack, Sam, or Teal'c may see it like that but I can't. I’m not a soldier. I can't see death as some unfortunate accident; it's a horrible, grievous thing. There has to be a reason for it. I have to learn from what happened. Can't you understand that Dr. Jeppeson? I have to learn from it so that it won't ever happen again."  
  
Chris let up on his hands, taking a step or two backward, flexing his sore and cramped fingers. The words were coming now, and he let him talk.  Ninety-eight percent of the time, it was all about listening.  
  
   
"I watched an entire race of people die. Then, I had to watch my friends, my family, suffer. Be tortured. I had to watch as Teal'c was forced to take part in some of it. I am responsible. It has nothing to do with me having any aspirations of being a god. It has to do with my job as the Communicator.    
  
I was the only one that really knew what was going on. I spoke the language. I didn't do my job and people suffered. Now, I have to find out what I missed. I owe it to my team. I have to apologize so I can try and regain their trust. I can't lose that."  
  
"But what if you never find out?"  
  
"I won't stop looking. I will find out. In the mean time I'm learning. Reviewing. Brushing up, whatever. This way, at least, I'll be prepared next time."  
  
"So you're going to try to cram all this info into your head?  It's useless Daniel. It's like cramming for an exam. When the time comes you are either going to know it or you won't. It's a fact of life that you just have to accept."  
  
Chris shook his head, moving around the table to Daniel's side, standing toe-to-toe with the other man.  
  
"There is no possible way for you to readily retain everything you learn. You are not all knowing. You are Doctor Daniel Jackson. Archeologist. Anthropologist. Linguist. Civilian Member of SG1. Most importantly you are human."  
  
"I know you wish you were Valentine Michael Smith, with an eidetic memory, but you aren't. You're lucky you can walk into a place and even grok what the fuck is going on culturally. It takes a lot of guts to do what you do. You say you’re not a soldier. You are. You are brave. So, grok the fullness of what you have accomplished and leave be this deal. It's just going to eat a hole in your gut."

 

* * *

 

Jack stood leaning against the banister at the bottom of the stairs. He could see into the dining room where his two friends were conversing, yelling at times, trying to make each other understand. The last mission had a huge impact on them all. He could not deny that. But, he had no idea quite how far Daniel had taken his responsibility; he had been too immersed in his own aftermath to see it.  
  
Daniel's posture was slumped; head down, shoulders curled forward, his arms hanging dejectedly at his side. The adrenaline was draining out of his system now that his battle had come to an end. Chris was talking again, quieter this time, the desperation for understanding gone from his voice.  
  
Chris was a hardheaded, tenacious ass. Jack would admit to that. He'd also admit that he was caring, understanding, and truthful and that he couldn't comprehend how all of that could come from the same man. The man wasted no time going for the throat, pushing you to the edge and forcing you to fight back. He never let you give up, always helping to solve the problem though. Maybe not in the way you expected and not pretty either, but there was a solution.    
  
He was probably the one and only 'shrink' he'd ever trust.    
  
Goose bumps popped up along his bare arms and Jack wished he'd grabbed something warmer before his trek downstairs. It wasn't the first thing on his mind when he woke up to yelling. Stopping bloodshed was the first priority. His two friends were a volatile mixture. Daniel knew how to push someone's buttons on the first try, and Chris tended to punch before throwing words back.  
  
The sounds of furniture moving brought his attention back to the other room. Chris said something that Jack couldn't hear and patted Daniel on the shoulder. Leaving the room, he headed in Jack's direction, limping, favoring his right leg.  
  
"Groping the fullness?" He asked, raising a single eyebrow at his friend. Chris merely smiled and shook his head, giving Jack his own pat on the shoulder before lumbering up the stairs.  
  
"Whatever you wanker," he turned, calling up the steps, somewhat affectionately, at his compadre.  
  
With a swing of his head, he turned back to find Daniel ambling into the living room, sinking down into the overstuffed chair, his arms resting high on the arm rests, bringing his shoulders close to his ears. Pushing off of the banister, he walked over to join him.  
  
He chose the couch, lowering himself carefully to the plush surface, hoping he wouldn't sink too far into the cushions. Situating himself in the corner, using his hands, he pulled his right leg up to rest on the couch.  
  
"Sorry if we woke you up." Daniel's voice crossed the short distance between them.  
  
"Ah don't worry about it." He reached over to the lamp beside him, turning it on its lowest setting. He didn't like sitting in the dark if avoidable "I figured Chris had another shower mishap and decided to share his misfortune with the rest of the house."  
  
Daniel laughed, his head lolling to the side and Jack caught sight of the swollen jaw on the left side. Fists had been flying after all. Though it appeared that only Jepp got a hit in. He was only limping when he passed by him a few moments ago, and Jack knew that it was because his ankle was bothering him.  
  
"Pissed him off did ya?"  
  
"hmm?"  
  
"The jaw?"  
  
"Oh yeah," Daniel brought a hand up to his face, hissing when he hit a tender spot. "I didn't think he'd hit me."  
  
"You must have picked at the wrong scab."  
  
"Yeah, was kinda below the belt" They sat silently, for a few moments before Daniel spoke again. "He's not so bad."  
  
"Oh?" Jack pushed himself up so that he could see the younger man easier.  
  
"Yeah, I know I said couldn't stand him. But he's not all that bad."  
  
"No, no he's not. Bit of bastard, but he's a good guy Daniel. One of the best."  
  
"I think I'm beginning to see that. He said things. They make sense I guess."  
  
"He says a lot of things. A lot of bullshit. A lot of truth. You just have to be ready to hear it." Jack swung his leg down, coming to sit on the edge of the sofa. Leaning forward he rested his forearms on his thighs, ignoring the protests from his right knee at the position. "We get so wrapped up in our own problems that we only see our point of view on missions. Everyone thinks it's their fault things go to shit. Sometimes, you need someone from the outside, unbiased, to get up close and personal, someone who's not afraid to take punches and misplaced anger to point out the truth."  
  
"I didn't think he would understand."  
  
"I think he accepts that he can't understand. Not completely. No one really can without being there. And I think Chris accepts that we, whoever he's dealing with, has that predetermined notion that he won't understand. After Iraq," Jack paused, gathering his thoughts, deciding what he could explain. "After Iraq, he was the only person I had to talk to that didn't say 'I understand.' He never pretended to. He listened. He didn't try to tell me what I felt, or what I experienced or how horrible it was. All he did was listen. That's what he's good at. Listening."  
  
Jack stopped, taking in a deep breath, then continued. "Give him a chance Daniel. You'll hate him most of the time, don't worry we all do. But give him a chance"  
  
"I think I can do that."  
  
"Good. By the way, you might want to put some ice on that. Help with the swelling and all."  
  
"I might do that.  
  
"Now, it's the butt crack of dawn, how about some coffee?" Jack smiled, awkwardly getting to his feet. "I'll grab some frozen peas while I'm in there for you."  
  
"Um, there might be a problem with that."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"The coffeepot's broken?"  
  
"Please don't tell me it was thrown at someone?" He closed his eyes and brought a hand up to his face, hoping his thought was wrong.  
  
"No, it wasn't thrown at anyone. It had a disagreement with the Corian."  
  
"With the Corian, eh? I take it it had some assistance?  
  
"Sorry about that. Chris said he was gonna go get one from Walmart. Said to be thankful it was open 24 hours."  
  
"So I guess it's up to me now?"  
  
"You could wait until Chris got up and did it."  
  
"Um no. I'm not dealing with him un-caffeinated. If you want to, be my guest but as you know he's already got a mean right hook."  
  
"I think I'll pass."  
  
"I thought so. It won't take long. I'm gonna go change and run out there."  
  
"All right, I'll be here. I got some thinking to do."

 

* * *

 

Jack had changed and gone, and Daniel was left sitting in the overstuffed chair in the living room; alone in the noisy hush of the early morning. Birds where jabbering annoyingly outside and another faint sound could be heard that Daniel thought might be Chris snoring upstairs.  
  
The older man had pointed somethings out to him earlier. Things he'd refused to accept before. Things he didn't know he believed until they were pointed out to him. Jack was right about needing someone from the outside.  
  
What made him think that he could really know everything anyhow? Where did that notion come from? Was it because everyone turned to him for the answers? And he had answers, most of the time. He never claimed to be omnipotent. Daniel knew he wasn't. It just took Chris slamming it in his face for him to believe it.  
  
It was strange how one event could change your whole perspective.  Things were clearer now, after the conversation with Chris, than they had been in a long time, even before the disastrous mission. It was as if all the little pieces floating around in his mind finally got their act together and he felt like he did the first time he got a Chinese finger trap to work; awe, wonder, and a sense of accomplishment.  
  
He would always wonder what went wrong. What made the Hoonieyicchts, attack the Bittream? But he was beginning to accept that he may never know. That sometimes shit happened, and the outcome was out of his control.  And that no matter how much he learned, there was always more to learn, and he'd never remember it all.  
  
He was glad he chucked that Tibetan monk plan. There were still more missions to go on, each a variation on the theme of exploration and meeting new people. He just needed a caesura, a break in the passacaglia rhythm, to get his head out of his ass and back on straight.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Passacaglia is by Bear McCreary and is from the Battlestar Galactic Season One Soundtrack.
> 
> Passacaglia - A musical form of the 17th and 18th centuries consisting of continuous variations on a ground bass and similar to the chaconne.
> 
> Passacaglia is by Bear McCreary and is from the Battlestar Galactic Season One Soundtrack. Shows up in the begining of Kobol’s Last Gleaming Part 1 (where Starbuck goes back to get the arrow of Apollo).


End file.
